


Tools of the Trade

by Cumberbatch Critter (ivelostmyspectacles)



Series: Awkward Boys Being Awkward Boys - Without Slash! [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gay Bar, Gen, M/M, Making Out, Sherlock doesn't communicate his plans well, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Undercover As Gay, Undercover as a Couple, and it leaves John a little surprised, casework
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:31:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/Cumberbatch%20Critter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was... was... not wearing what he had been when John had left. He'd been wearing his usual dressing gown and the ratty t-shirt and blue striped pyjama pants. Now? Now... he was wearing the familiar purple shirt, black leather trousers, and pitch black boots. And what appeared to be a smudge of black eyeliner.</p><p>John was fairly sure that his mouth fell open.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tools of the Trade

"Sherlock, I got the whipped cream you wanted, but they didn't have lite. Hopefully whatever experiment you're working on this time isn't going to implode the can or something," John muttered, dropping the shopping onto the table.

"What? It's not for an experiment," came the baritone as footsteps led into the kitchen. "I wanted hot chocolate and you can't have hot chocolate without whipped topping," Sherlock said, grabbing the can and shaking it. "Obviously."

"Oh, yeah. Obviously," John muttered sarcastically, glancing up. He promptly stopped, hands freezing on the cans of soup he was pulling out of the bag. "Hot chocolate in the middle of summer..."

Sherlock was... was... _not_ wearing what he had been when John had left. He'd been wearing his usual dressing gown and the ratty t-shirt and blue striped pyjama pants. Now? Now... he was wearing the familiar purple shirt, black leather trousers, and pitch black boots. And what appeared to be a smudge of black eyeliner.

John was fairly sure that his mouth fell open.

Sherlock popped the cap on the whipped cream and squirted it into his mouth, expression deepening as he returned his gaze to John. "What?" he asked, licking his lips.

John blinked a few times, straightening up. There were a few thoughts mulling about in his head. _Sherlock, don't eat the whipped cream like that. It's unsanitary_ and _unhealthy. Sherlock, how in the hell did you get into those pants? Sherlock, go change back into what you were wearing before, for fuck's sake!_

Instead: "Why are you dressed like a porn-star?" he asked bluntly.

Sherlock swiped the excess whipped cream from the nozzle with his finger, sucking it off afterwards. John wondered if he was doing that on purpose or if he was totally unaware that as well as looking pornographic, he was _acting_ pornographic, too.

"Didn't I tell you?" Sherlock said, capping the whipped cream and dropping it onto the shelf in the fridge. "We need to go undercover to find our suspect for the assault/murder case."

Something just wasn't adding in up in John's brain. The buttons were straining on Sherlock's shirt and the trousers left _nothing_ to imagination.

"... Are we going to a strip club or going to film porn?" John asked dryly, aiming for humour but not hitting the mark. He was _not_ going _anywhere_ with Sherlock if the detective was wearing _that_. There were already enough rumours about them.

"Strip club," Sherlock said simply. "Put on a t-shirt and rough jeans. Or something military. You can decide," he said flippantly, pouring himself a cup of tea.

John's mouth gaped open again. "Tell me _we're_ not the ones stripping." Not that he would, anyway. Definitely not. Sherlock, Sherlock could manage it, maybe, but... no.

"Of course not. Not unless it's necessary," Sherlock added.

"Then why do I have to put that stuff on? And why are _you_ wearing those!?" John protested.

"So we can blend in. Honestly, John, do try to keep up." Sherlock gripped his shoulders and turned him around, guiding him to the stairs. "Please, pick something that does not involve three layers of jumpers and a sweater vest over the top. Hiding in plain sight is the key to disguise."

John stumbled on the stairs. "Sherlock- why can't you go on your own?"

"I work better with you," Sherlock said simply, giving him another push before turning and striding away.

* * *

 

The electic atmosphere of the strip club simultaneously made John's heart jump to his throat as well as his nerves jerk tight as Sherlock stepped up next to him.

"... Sherlock."

"Mhmm?"

"... There's only guys here."

Sherlock looked down at him, his blue eyes shining bright in the glow that bathed the strip club. "Of course."

John felt like his world was shrinking, settled onto a small little pinpoint that he couldn't escape from. He wanted to die. "It's a gay strip club."

"Didn't I mention?"

"No."

"Oh."

A note of tension hung in the air for approximately three seconds.

"Well, keep your eyes out for the suspect. You saw his picture in the cab," Sherlock said dismissively before striding off into the crowd. His stride was as smooth and as steady as a black jaguar's in the wild, although John was pretty sure that a jaguar's arse didn't jiggle quite so much in its skin as it prowled.

"... Fuck," John hissed, hurrying after Sherlock. He was going to kill him. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock had already taken a place at the bar, his fingers working deftly over the top two buttons on his shirt as he looked back. "What?"

"You brought me to a gay strip club!" John hissed.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "So? Sit down and have a drink." He spun around on his barstool and leaned forward, elbows propped on the bar top. "Excuse me."

"Hey there, gorgeous. What can I get ya?" the bartender asked. He was wearing far too much glitter and his hair was streaked blue.

"Give me a White Russian and a Buttery Nipple for my friend," Sherlock said confidently, jerking his head towards John.

"Sherlock!" John protested.

"Coming right up, gentlemen."

Sherlock looked back at John. "Sit down."

Red-faced and without a clue what else to do, John slunk into the chair next to Sherlock, hunching his shoulders. "What the hell did you order for me?" he muttered. "Is it strong? Because I'm pretty sure I need strong."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, swinging around to survey the crowd. "It's something butterscotch. I thought it might be up your alley."

John frowned, thanking the bartender when he set their drinks in front of them. He took a small sip of the... butterscotch drink, surprisingly pleased with the taste. "You could have told me," he commented after a moment.

"Hm?"

"That it's... this kind of club." John's eyes travelled the expanse of the crowd, too, settling on the three dancers on the nearby stage. His stomach clenched up and he looked away again, trying to get the blush out of his face. He wouldn't 'blend in' if he looked embarrassed.

"Slipped my mind," Sherlock said, sipping at his drink contemplatively as he scanned the crowd.

"Uh huh..." John sipped at his drink, squinting up at Sherlock. "How did you know what this drink is? I thought you didn't drink."

"I once performed a series of experiments on my tolerance to different types of alcohol," Sherlock said without looking away from the crowd. "I became increasingly familiar with the different types and names of alcohol. I knew you liked butterscotch, so I thought shnapps or this. Buttery Nipple is generally stronger, though, and given the look that's been plastered on your face since you walked in, I was hoping it would help to lower your inhibitions before you give us away."

John sighed. "So, you're trying to get me drunk so I don't give it away that we aren't _actually_ gay."

"Shh." Sherlock raised his drink, gesturing to some male of roughly thirty-two, blonde hair in a mess of swept-up spikes, who raised his glass in return.

John very nearly fell over. "Are you... are you _flirting_?" he asked incredulously.

"Of course I am. It's the best way to get information when your potential suspects fancy you," Sherlock replied easily. "Keep looking flabbergasted. It makes you look like you're angry at me for flirting right beside you." He grinned lazily, eyes flicking back to the crowd.

John huffed, taking a gulp of his drink that left his throat burning.

"Going to do a little recon. Back soon," Sherlock said, slipping off from his stool and disappearing into the crowd.

John gawked at him as he left. "Sher..." he trailed off. He didn't want to sit here alone. It was more pathetic than being tricked into coming here in the first place. He couldn't exactly tell people _I'm not gay_ here, or their cover would be blown. And while Sherlock _deserved_ to have his cover blown for this stunt...

John sighed and held his drink tightly.

* * *

 

Twenty minutes, three turned-down hookups, and two cocktails later, John was feeling a little bit dizzy and a lot more irritated.

Sherlock had been missing for the past twenty, after saying he would be back soon, and, despite the fact that John was doing absolutely nothing, Sherlock just _had_ to have dragged him along. Why couldn't this be a normal strip club? Then John wouldn't feel weird about looking anywhere except his own shoes.

He drained the last of his drink and got to his feet. If Sherlock wasn't coming back, John was just going to tell him that he was leaving and then he'd find a good not-gay pub around here and drink until he couldn't remember this fiasco.

"Looking for your friend?"

John glanced back, finding the side-swept blonde spikes guy staring at him intently. "... Yeah. Have you seen him?"

Spikes nodded. "Yeah. He's over there." He thumbed towards on of the closed-curtain partitions. "You his boyfriend?"

"Uhh... no. I'm just... a friend. We're not together," John muttered.

"That's the way to go. A lot less attachment, lot less trouble," Spikes said. "Going steady is a pain in the arse."

John groaned when he realised that Spikes had taken 'just friends' as, most likely, friends with benefits. And he couldn't even say that it wasn't true, because who would believe him?? Especially here. "Yeah," he said instead, slinking off into the crowd.

He grabbed the red velvet curtain - and wasn't that tacky? - to pull it back. "Sherlock, if you aren't going to need me-"

He had a strangely shocking surge shoot through his body when he walked in on Sherlock making out with another guy.

Sherlock resurfaced with a gasp, head snapping around to meet John's gaze. His cheeks were flushed, and his lips were kissed pink, but his eyes were alight with the glow of a case high, a look that John had come to know well. "John..."

John blinked rapidly, trying to figure out what he was seeing: Sherlock, making out with a _guy_ , straddling said guy's lap with his hand on his chest, purple shirt unbuttoned to expose his bare chest. Sherlock was definitely topping.

"Holy _shit_." These were things John shouldn't see or know.

"What are you... what are you doing here?" Sherlock murmured, his tone of voice dropped out, taking John right back to Mrs Monkford and the faked emotional scene. He knew what Sherlock wanted, but he didn't know if he could get past being so gobsmacked to properly respond.

John opened his mouth, closed it, and then squared his shoulders. If Sherlock wanted him to play along, fine. It wasn't like John had any other reactions execpt pure shock going on in his head right now to begin with. "What the _hell_ are you doing?"

Sherlock licked his lips, leaning back slightly. "I just... I..."

Because that gave John so much to work on. What was he even supposed to _say_? Even if he _was_ gay, which he wasn't, what was he supposed to do in this situation? If it was one of his girlfriends, at a normal pub, making out with another guy... well, even then, ex-soldier or not, John wasn't one for confrontation unless provoked. The other guy would always have to throw the first punch.

But Sherlock wanted _something_ , going by that wide-eyed, practically vibrating with excitement look that was shining on his face beneath the hand-in-the-cookie-jar look plastered on the top of it.

"Hey, man, he came on to me!" the other guy exclaimed, holding up his hands and leaning away from Sherlock, back into the sofa. "I thought he was single, he isn't wearing a wedding ring or nothing."

John shot the guy an annoyed glare. Wedding ring or not, _seriously_? He'd been groping for Sherlock's arse not thirty seconds ago, not he was backing off like a wounded puppy? And anyway, the whole thing was just ridiculous to begin with.

Sherlock, on the other hand, looked affronted. "I did not!" John didn't even know Sherlock's voice could get that high. " _You_ invited me back here!"

"He's lying," the guy retorted, shoving at Sherlock's chest to push him off.

"John!" Sherlock's attention jerked back to John. He was only just maintaining the innocent-terrified-oh no look; the maniacal grin was shining through. "I'm telling you the truth!"

John resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock..."

"Best keep your whore on a leash, mate," the guy drawled, brushing his lap up as he stood. "Looks and dresses like a slut, acts like it, too."

"Oi," John protested, something actually serious kicking his adrenalin into overtime again. Never-mind that Sherlock _did_ look and was dressed like a stripper, at least tonight; complete strangers didn't get to call him names. People did enough of that already, and those were even acquaintances that did.

"He's our guy," Sherlock said suddenly, his tone dropping back into its usual, no-nonsense tone. He ducked around the guy and there was a metallic click that John recognised as handcuffs. John vaguely wondered where Sherlock had stored those in the meantime.

"Hey, what are you doing?!"

Sherlock stepped back around, long fingers deftly buttoning up his shirt. "Come on, John. This room is booked out for me for the hour, no one will come looking and find him, no matter how much he screams," he added, glancing over his shoulder at their apparent suspect. "I'll text Lestrade on the way." With that, he swept from the room with a flourish of a velvet curtain, leaving John still in disbelief and a very angry, handcuffed for the wrong reasons, man.

"Sherlock!"

John ducked out after him, spotting him through the crowd just as he vanished out the door. It was like he was on a different wavelength, sometimes.

"Ugh," Sherlock muttered when John fell into step next to him again. "I hate smokers. Tastes like I've been sucking on an ash tray."

"Sherlock, what the _hell_ was that?" he demanded. "What the _hell_ are you playing at?"

Sherlock looked down at him oddly. "Working. Wasn't that obvious?"

John stared up at him disbelievingly. "Is there _anything_ that you wouldn't do for a case?" he asked, although he already knew the-

"No, not really," Sherlock said dismissively. "It's just kissing. If I was having sex with him, I would have done my research, obviously, but there was no risk. It was either the right guy or the wrong one. Worst case scenario, I had to go through the ordeal more than once."

John gaped at him. " _Seriously_?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Is this really that big of a surprise to you?"

"Well..." John huffed, looking back ahead. "No, not really. I don't know, it shouldn't be." He dug his hands into his pockets. "A little warning next time, Sherlock, that would be nice."

"It had to be believable. You were great, by the way, although I had hoped you would get more angry..."

"I was flabbergasted, Sherlock! Not angry. A little annoyed," he added, "but I don't know what you expected."

"I expected just about what I got. You're spectacular at catching on; that's why I bring you along." Sherlock grinned over at him.

John didn't know if he should sigh or gripe at Sherlock some more. In the end, he knew the latter would get him nowhere. He sighed. "Just... cue me in next time, okay?"

Sherlock nodded as he hailed down a cab. "Sure. If there's ever a time where we need to go undercover at a gay strip joint..." He opened the cab door for John and raised his eyebrows, smirk growing.

"Oh, just get in," John retorted, shoving the detective into the cab. "And don't tell Lestrade I was with you. The whole Yard'll be thinking-"

"Oh, they already do," Sherlock interrupted, pulling out his phone.

"Even more, then," John said. He turned his attention to the window, ignoring the way the cabbie had given them a second glance in the back mirror. "I hate you, you know."

"Tell me how you really feel, John." There was a smile in Sherlock's voice. "I'll have Angelo drop off some food for us when we get home. You'll have the pasta?"

John rolled his eyes. He was totally sucking up to him, now. Or thanking him. John wasn't sure. Either way, he guessed it didn't matter. The case was over. Chalk one more up on the crazy things they did.

"Sure," he replied, and he definitely did not smile at his reflection in the cab window.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sorry, because stripper!lock gave me a nice mental picture and I can't delete it from my mind. ... And because of the mysterious deleted gay club scene from S3.
> 
> I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading!


End file.
